Stagnant
by MarchMagnolia
Summary: AU: Sanji misses the time when women paraded the streets in large numbers; the time when they were tangible beings. Now, he's lucky to even see a girl - a live one, that is. In the midst of an apocalypse, all Sanji has for company is a starving horde of grotesque Zombies and a sword-wielding, green-haired stranger. But a shitty Marimo is better than no one at all. Sanji&Zoro.
1. Amongst the trash

**Disclaimer: **I do not own One Piece or any of its characters - this is all Oda's work. I'm merely adding to his own amazing story.

Please check out u/1778260/Shadow-of-Malice - she's an awesome writer for Ghost Hunt and Soul Eater stories, if you're into some creepyness.

Reviewing is always nice if you enjoy the story - but if not, a fav or a follow is just as good.

* * *

**Stagnant**

It had been a normal morning.

A five-thirty in the AM start, followed by a ten minute shower and a modest meal of scrambled eggs, toast and a pot of hot coffee.

He had no idea if Zeff was up or not. He couldn't hear that peg leg wobbling around upstairs, so he assumed that the old fart was still snoring his fat head off, making his plaited moustache twitch at every breath.

The Baratie didn't open until seven, but it was good to start getting things served up, making sure the kitchen was ready to go. Sanji decided that he'd start with the rubbish first, but as he made his way over to the bin, he noticed that it had already been emptied, though it had been full after closing hours the previous night.

Perhaps the old shit was up after all.

Pulling out a cigarette and lighter from his ever-present suit, he stepped out into the icy fog of Saturday morning, a chill coursing through his spine. It was very quiet out, and he could only just see in the fog if he squinted. He lit the cigarette up, inhaled the nicotine taste, savoured it, and looked down the alleyway by the side entrance of the Baratie.

"Oi, shit-head. You out here?" He called.

A slurping, muffled sound greeted him. It wasn't exactly the noise he had been expecting, and his curly-brow furrowed.

The damn hobos were eating from their trash again. It's not like they'd find much from the Baratie in there, though. Sanji didn't waste his ingredients.

He stepped forward, and the sound stopped.

"Zeff?" He tried, again, attempting to see past the fog.

He heard a small scrape – a footstep against loose dirt or asphalt from the road, perhaps – and something clanged against a rubbish bin, loud and metallic against the eerie silence, and the scraping stopped. Sanji held his breath.

It started again; slow and clumsy – the movements weren't deliberate, and obviously were without precision. _Scrape, slide, crunch. _

Sanji froze, unsure of how to react. The cigarette in his mouth dangled from lips limply, the flame burning within slowly dying out.

_Scrape, slide, crunch._

_Gurgh._

The scraping, dragging sound was accompanied by a groan. An inhumane groan, which forced a fist to clamp shut tightly in Sanji's gut, disabling his breathing. A sort of gut-wrenching, winded feeling overcame him. He was feeling a little more than uncomfortable – he was almost… scared, worried. Short pants of breath escaped him, and he had worked up a sweat.

He shook off the feelings though, and began to smoke the cigarette greedily again, attempting to dissolve any fear. What did he need to worry about?

Sanji didn't get scared. He was just like that. He was an excellent fighter. Most people would underestimate him due to him being a bit of a pretty-boy, and he was more on the skinny side than that of muscles, but word had gotten around town that he was tough. No one would approach him in an intimidating way. Surely not.

Then why was he so uneasy?

"If you're not out there, old man, I'm going back inside with my cigarette. I don't give a shit that you don't like me smoking inside."

He expected to hear a gruff "Don't even think about it, Eggplant." But there was no sign of Zeff. Sanji, as a result, came to the conclusion that Zeff was still sleeping, and that he'd been talking to himself all along like a crazy person.

Before he could completely turn a way, he caught a figure moving out of the fog from his peripheral vision. Slowly, uncoordinated, eventually becoming visible to the naked eye. Sanji stood and stared.

The thing's eyes bugged out, then cut to the sky, the ground – everywhere – in a few multiple shocking movements, as if it didn't know where to look. Blood dribbled from its chin, a mask of red all around its mouth, and a piece of thick, blonde plaited hair, which resembled Zeff's moustache protruded from its mouth as it tried to chew it absent-mindedly. The leg was obviously broken as it was dragged along at a highly awkward angle. On closer inspection, a bone was jutting out in a bloody, horrific way, and it gave a sickening 'pop' sound every time the leg was moved.

_Well, fuck me. _Sanji breathed out heavily, his heart hammering wildly in his chest.

The cigarette fell to the cold path, burning embers dying out, spraying tiny red sparks across the foggy sky. The spots of glowing orange-red danced in front of the mutilated being, making it turn its crushed in head towards Sanji. Its hollow eyes locked with his blue ones, a gurgle escaping its rotting, mangled mouth, as it dropped Zeff's signature moustache from its dead flesh that once upon a time resembled lips. It gazed at the young chef with a far from satiated, passionate urge of hunger, like it hadn't eaten for a good week; reminding Sanji of his own difficult, hunger-ridden past. He almost felt sympathy for the disgusting creature in front of him.

Almost.

The seemingly gender-less creature suddenly moved with renewed vigor; its broken, painful-looking leg forgotten.

Sanji, two legs perfectly intact, and without any excuse whatsoever, didn't move. He was completely stagnant, counting down the seconds he had left. He didn't know why he didn't move – he supposed he just couldn't. Not in this type of situation.

He'd be better off stuffing himself like a Turkey and putting himself on a platter by this point – at least he'd taste better that way, with a bit of seasoning.

Sanji couldn't find it in himself to laugh at his own thoughts.

He simply stood limply as the thing advanced. It crept closer and closer and closer.

It was in his face before he knew it; bloody, grotesque lips wafted a vomit-inducing stench into his face and he stumbled back, but it had a tight grip on his arm and on his shoulder.

_Move, Sanji! Move, damn it, you shit-head! Move, move, move!_

It lunged for his neck; rotting, razor-sharp teeth closing in, a piece of Zeff's blonde hair still stuck to the corner of its mouth.

_MOVE._

A metallic crash, a panicked scuffle, a choked sob, a single heartbeat and a chilling scream.

An agonizing, almost deafening silence.

A perennial torrent of blood.

And then -

- nothing.


	2. Deliberate ignorance

**So, I think I'm going to have to up the rating to an M - tell me what you think. Here's a fun game: count how many times I write the word blood or describe blood (eg. with the colour red) in this story, because after re-reading the first chapter, then writing this one, it feels like there is so much use of blood. Everyone's bleeding everywhere, guys. It's a period day.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own One Piece because I'm not Oda who is a complete babe. I also do not own Trading Yesterday's "Shattered" lyrics. I just put them there, because, you know. To me, when he was attacked, that was pretty much the end of his life. He pretty much died there, because the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that one, he's going to be seeing a whole lotta blood and death and not good stuff. So I felt the lyrics worked. **

**SO SUE ME. Actually, don't. I put a disclaimer, so you can't. Hah. Intelligence, I have it.**

* * *

_Yesterday I died; tomorrow's bleeding. _

* * *

He was spinning, not quite so elegantly as a Ballerina would, but more in the way someone spun when they had had quite a number of brewskies that night. Of course, that hadn't been the case, either.

His chest felt heavy – crushingly so, and he wondered if this was what dying felt like. He didn't think so; at least, it didn't seem like it. He wasn't experiencing any of that "my life flashed before my eyes" nonsense, and he didn't see a bright light in the distance. To be frank, his eyes were shut tightly, however, so even if he wanted to see a light he wouldn't have been able to.

He felt something wet fall onto his face, the weird, unknown fluid making a worrying dripping sound.

_Drip, drip._

The wet, sticky feeling grew, splattering on his face and cascading down his cheek, rolling around the curve of his chin. He might have thought they were drops of water, if it didn't seem so thick and claggy on his skin.

The pressure on his chest hadn't subsided, either; with the spinning starting to fade, he had noticed that it wasn't just his chest that felt unnaturally heavy, but his entire body, as if pinned by an invisible force.

But the force, of course, was not invisible. If Sanji opened his eyes, he knew that he'd come face to face with something that he most likely didn't want to see.

He heard a heavy pant of breath come from his left, and froze.

He wasn't sure if it was the thing that had attacked him earlier, or something else entirely. But that still left the question of what was on top of him. Unfortunately, there would be only one way to find out.

His eyes fluttered open.

The bloodied mask of a face gazed at him lifelessly, and a scream built up in his throat immediately as he thrashed about on the ground. His head hit the back of a knocked over trashcan that he had obviously fallen against before, making an awful clanging sound. He half expected the thing pinning him down to wake up from the noise and start gnawing at his face again, but it didn't.

Relief washed over him in torrents as he realised it was dead, its already crushed in head missing a part that had been there before.

His legs, despite being pinned underneath the body, were strong enough to nudge the attacker off. It lolled to the side, definitely dead this time, and he sat up easily with the lack of weight pushing him down.

Sanji's hand reflexively went to his face where he'd felt the sticky substance fall onto him. When he pulled it back, his hunch was answered: his hand was dripping red. Not his own blood, but the… other things'. He wiped the remainder of the attackers' blood off of his face with his jacket sleeve, reluctant to ruin the expensive material. It was a bit too late for that anyway, however – he'd practically been lying in _its_ blood, though he couldn't recall how it had been injured.

"What happened…?" He asked himself quietly, his voice having a slight edge of irritation to it. He remembered falling, his heartbeat pounding painfully hard against his chest, a sob catching in the back of his throat, his own (manly) scream reverberating through the air, and then – nothing. He looked at the trashcans, and realised he must have knocked his head on one, and blanched out.

His eyes set hard onto the… "zombie". He didn't know what else to call it, and he'd watched enough Zombie horror movies (all Luffy's doing, of course) to know what they were, and what they did.

He knew that if it really was a Zombie, or at least some mutated human thing, then they didn't die from a mere fall. Something purposeful had struck it, and with a brief scan of the ground, he found the murder weapon: a bloody, dented trashcan lid.

That's when he heard a noise from the left again, like earlier. This time, it sounded unmistakeably like a raspy cough.

"Eggplant?" A scratchy, gruff voice called, and Sanji swivelled quickly in the direction of the familiar insult.

"Zeff?" He took a hurried step forward-

"No!" Zeff growled loudly, another coughing fit attacking him. "Don't come any closer. Stay over there."

He tried to make out Zeff's lumpy figure through the fog, but he saw zilch. Sanji should have thought that Zeff's behaviour was odd, but this thought didn't connect. He was far too happy that his father figure was alive. After he had seen the bloodied, blonde plait, he wasn't sure what to think. But an ache in his chest had died down, and he could breathe easier now that he could hear Zeff's grumpy voice once more.

"Then you come to me, shit head. Get out of there, come on. Let's go call the cops on this sick fuck and have a day off." Sanji joked, his fingers itching to reach for his packet of smokes.

Despite an attempt at humour, he was met with silence.

"Zeff?"

"That was pretty, pathetic, kid." Zeff finally grunted, a sharp intake of breath following the sentence. "You had enough time to kick that thing in the head. Freezing like that will kill you."

Disregarding the earlier order, Sanji walked forward into the misty, grey alley, closing in on Zeff's pained, strange voice.

"If you ever put yourself in danger like that again, I'll cut your freakin' knees off. Got it, Eggplant? You need to act, not hesitate…"

Sanji's foot landed in a small pool of blood. It was a sick, winding trail leading behind a stack of dumpsters. Upon closer inspection, he could make out the wooden leg protruding out from the other side. He made his way closer, anticipating what he would see with a negative view. Sweat beads were forming on his neck and armpits, his fists clenched until his knuckles were white, and he could feel his Adams apple throbbing against his neck, chorusing the beat of his heart. His heart was having quite the roller coaster ride that morning.

He stopped in front of the shadowed, huddled man.

Zeff looked up at him with a bloody, weak, sad grin on his face. Skin was peeled off around his mouth, one plait-moustache missing. "…Because I won't be here for much longer."

The entire front of his shirt was permanently soaked in blood, a small section of his face red and raw and bloody. It was probably the most disgusting, incomprehensible wound Sanji had ever seen. It explained why his voice sounded odd: he couldn't exactly formulate words as well as he used to. What was more was the large, blue, black and red chunk that had been bitten out of his shoulder. Deep scrapes and cuts adorned his thick body, as if the thing had tried to cut him open using blunt fingernails alone. The only part of Zeff that looked unharmed was the only thing that wasn't truly apart of him: his peg leg.

Sanji dropped to his knees, feeling far too weak to hold himself up. "Old… man…. Zeff." He tried to reach for the man he thought of as a father, but his arms wouldn't stay up. They shook, unmoving by his sides. "You're… you're shittin' with me, right?" He tried to laugh, but it came out sounding downright alien and unfamiliar to the entire situation.

Zeff closed his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose. Sanji saw the tiniest trickle of a tear at the corner of his eye, and his throat completely closed up.

"Not this time, Sanji."

_And never again. _The words were unspoken, but they were there.

"Fuck that." Sanji growled through clenched teeth, and Zeff opened his eyes as Sanji's jacket was pressed against his mauled shoulder in an attempt to stop the bleeding, and once prompted, Zeff held it there himself. The nineteen year old Cook rose from his kneel, then bent down, wrapping his arm around the older, wounded man, hauling him up to a wobbly stand. "Don't pull that shitty speech on me, you goddamn shitting freakin' bastard. You think you're gonna die? Think again, damn it. That's not even a fatal wound. Barely a scratch. We'll get you fixed up, or we'll take you to a hospital, or some shit like that."

"Sanji, I ain't going to a freaking Hospital. You're in denial; look at me."

Sanji did. Blood was still dripping from his half-eaten face and the black jacket was taking on a red hue. It must have been excruciating, but Zeff was hardly showing it. That, or he couldn't make pained facial expressions due to the… inconvenience.

"I am. You're beautiful." He was dragging Zeff along now, one large arm over Sanji's own thin but broad shoulders. He was moving quickly, trying to get the Old man into the Baratie as quickly as possible. He could hear Zeff trying not to hiss between his teeth at each movement.

"Yeah, I'm sure that I look like a real diamond, you little shit."

Sanji ignored the comment but paused when his foot knocked into something. He cast a downward glance and he saw the creature again with a grimace.

"When it was, uh, on me… did you…?"

"Yeah. I saved your skinny little posterior, you weasel. Wouldn't have happened if you stood up for your god damn self." Zeff's peg leg purposely stamped on his black, suede shoes, and Sanji winced, but kept moving regardless.

"Is that how you were injured?" Sanji opened the door, keeping it open with his leg and not so elegantly half-tumbled through the opening. He balanced them both with a hand on the wall, then moved his black-covered leg, letting the door slam shut behind them.

"No. This happened before. It must have thought I was dead, then heard you come out. Dumb shit. Then I had to beat it to death with that trash can lid." Zeff answered once righting himself. "It caught me by surprise as I was emptying the bin. Thought it was a hobo. Guess I was wrong."

Sanji tried to piece together what was missing in the story. He supposed that after realising that the thing was dead, Zeff had gone back to hide himself behind the dumpsters – either too injured to stand, or too shamed to show his face to Sanji. It was probably the case of both. The old bastard could have at least moved the damn thing off of him before hiding, though.

"Guess so." Sanji began to hobble both of them up the stairs, grasping onto the railing as if his life depended on it. Zeff was practically falling onto him, and it wasn't surprising considering how built Zeff was, and how skinny Sanji was. After a couple annoying moments filled with pained grunts and swearing, they were upstairs of the Baratie, and Sanji moved Zeff into his bedroom before laying the old man on the bed. Zeff let out a sigh of relief, but Sanji could see the bleeding, gaping cuts had started to soak through his shirt at a rapid rate.

Sanji was no doctor, but despite this, he set to work in disinfecting, bandaging and tending to Zeff's wounds, and getting him a good bottle of Sake to drown out the pain (though attempting to drink something with his fucked up mouth wasn't really the smartest idea, either). He spent a good half hour tenderly trying to stop all the bleeding, and managed okay enough, but the face was an entirely different thing. He needed stitches, and as mentioned before, Sanji was no doctor. He didn't even know how to sew. His hands were used for cooking and playing with his ding-dong. Nothing else.

He didn't even know how Zeff could form coherent sentences without yelling in agony each time. The blonde began considering just slapping a whole lotta bandaids on his face when Zeff seemed to sense his discomfort. It was no surprise that he was so easily found out. He wasn't being subtle about it – his single shown eye was glued to the massacred flesh.

"I don't need any more of your help, kid." Zeff snapped.

Sanji was taken aback. "Hang on, I could… uh… do you want me to call Chopper?" That seemed like the best thing to do. He probably should have done that first, actually.

Zeff ignored him. Instead, he jerked his masculine chin towards the small radio on his desk. He had never been one much for technology, and so the only television was in Sanji's room, but the old fart had a thing for listening to soft music as he fell to sleep. It was always a perk that amused Sanji.

"Turn it on. To the local station."

Sanji did, without questioning. It crackled to life reluctantly, a subtle static playing in the background, betraying how old the radio really was. A youngish sounding woman immediately began to speak.

"-widespread violence in a few regions of East Blue today, and police are assuming it to be the work of a dangerous gang, namely, the Shichibukai. These 'riots' have lead to an unceremonious amount of deaths and casualties, a lot due to the act of Cannibalism, and the attackers seem to be multiplying in force by the hour, ever since it started at around two this morning. The authorities have given official orders for people to stay inside until further notice, and to lock down your houses. Despite this, not much news on this matter has been released. We have had a few emails come in today, however, claiming that these absurdly violent acts are not the acts of a gang war, but that of a Zombie Apocalypse. It seems that too many people have been watching too many horror movies lately, and it's causing unnecessary panic – so here is a message to you, folks: _Zombies_ are a piece of fiction. The act of Cannibalism is not by any means proof that a fake thing has come to life. It merely shows that these gangs are involved in high procurement of illegal substances. We've all heard the drug stories, how they can give a number of users the munchies. This is no different. But it has indeed been a sad day for everyone suffering outside. Until we hear of the next update, we'll be playing some music; so do stay tuned for more information on this terrible matter. Coming up, the best selling hit – Bink's Sake, by Humming Brook, only on Dial FM."

There was a pause as Sanji clicked the radio off. He turned to Zeff, who was stroking his remaining single plait whisker in consideration. After a moment, he spoke, "go get me some scissors, will ya, Eggplant? I'll look stupid leaving half a moustache."

"Did you just hear a god damn thing the radio just said, old man, or are you deaf already? And you still haven't answered me about Chopper." Sanji snapped. He whirled away from Zeff, stomped into the hall and to the main bathroom for a few moments, before coming back with a pair of scissors, a razor and a handheld mirror. He chucked them on the bed. "There."

Zeff nodded with a grunt, then set to work. He didn't look as if he was going to answer Sanji properly anytime soon because he was a stubborn and shitty old geezer, so Sanji jogged downstairs and quickly went to shut all the doors and windows and lock them up tight, heeding the Radios warning. Standing by the Baratie's double door entry, he kept the sign facing the outside world on the "Sorry, we're closed" side. He had an inkling that it would be a while before they'd be open for business again.

Then, he set about to his own work. He went back upstairs, checked in on Zeff who was still working on his stache, then headed into their tiny-ass kitchen, which was a whole lot different to the Baratie's mega-deluxe, clean and pristine kitchen. He grabbed the house phone off the bench, and began to dial the numbers of Zeff's employees, telling them not to come into work until further notice, and to stay safe. Patty and Carne were the only two who seemed a little upset about it, but once Sanji had filled them in all the "rioting" they promised to barricade themselves inside. He didn't bother to mention Zeff's situation.

After that, he thought about his friends. Luffy, Nami, Usopp, Chopper. Nami, mainly. He was surprised that her well being had totally slipped from his mind, and mentally chided himself for it. That was definitely no way to act towards a lady. So, he rang her. At least, he tried.

It rang for an eternity when he realised that no one was going to pick up.

His palms were getting sticky. She couldn't have gone outside, already, this early in the morning? What if she had gone out for a morning jog to work on her absolutely lovely and perfect feminine figure? Not that she needed it, of course. But it was a possibility. In that case, he'd need to go out and tear the entire town down to find her. If anything happened to her…

Then he realised that he'd called her house phone. Why didn't he ring her mobile?

He tried again.

After anxiously waiting, tugging on his hair and nearly ripping it from his very scalp, three rings had passed and someone picked up.

There was a disdainful groan. _"What?" _

"Nami-Swan~~!" Sanji practically exploded in a flurry of hearts. "Thank All Blue that you're all right!"

"_Sanji-kun, it's so early in the morning. You know I don't have any classes on Saturdays. What the hell are you doing ringing me at this hour?"_

"Oh, Nami-san. It's terrible. It's dangerous outside today, so don't go out, okay? I really, really mean it. Riots have broken out. Just please, don't go outside today. Stay in, read a good book, lock the doors – and don't forget the windows, too."

"_Riots?"_ She sounded very confused. _"That's nonsense, Sanji-kun. Besides, I'm at Luffy's. I can't stay here, I have to go home."_

Sanji nearly choked on his own salivate. "L-luffy's!? Why are you at that shitty moron's house, Nami-san?!"

"_The sleepover? Remember? The one you were meant to come to, but you were too busy working?"_

Oh, that one. Right. Luffy had wanted him, Chopper and Usopp to stay over. Sanji was too busy though – Friday nights always were – but if he had of known that Nami was staying over too, he'd have made some arrangements.

"_Ooooi, Nami. Keep it down, we're sleeping~!"_ Luffy's sleepy, whiny voice was heard over the other end, followed by the sound of her throwing an inanimate object at him.

"_Shut up, Luffy."_ She hissed in the direction of Luffy, and then focused back onto the phone call. _"Anyway…"_

"Nami-san, please. I beg of you. Stay at Luffy's, at least he can protect you, and you can use Usopp and Chopper as shields." He paused, and he could hear Nami was about to scold him for the comment against the two cowards, when he cut her off (which was very un-gentlemanly to do, he knew). "Look, the old man… was attacked this morning. I would walk you home if I could, but I need to take care of him and I don't trust Luffy that much to take you home."

Nami paused. After a couple seconds of silence, she let out a sigh. _"You owe me ten thousand Beli, Sanji-kun, do you understand me? Ten thousand, and no less."_

"Yes, Nami-swan! I completely understand you, my beautiful Mellorine~!"

"_And… I'm sorry to hear about Zeff. I hope he gets better soon."_ She sounded very worried, and it brought a smile to his face. He really liked it best when Nami was sincere. Even though, deep down, he knew that her most sincere feelings lay with their Captain (though she'd never admit such an absurd thing). He didn't really want to admit it either, but Luffy made her happy, whether she liked it or not. All he had wanted was to be the one to make her happy, but that seat had already been filled. He was just glad that she did care about him, his well being and his family. It meant a lot, in hindsight.

"Thank you, Nami-swan. Now, get back to rest, my love~!"

"_I plan on it. Don't god damn wake me up in the middle of the morning again after this."_ With a harsh click, she hung up on him.

She was so lovely when she was pissed off.

With a slightly happier buzzing aura about him, Sanji set to make Zeff some food.

* * *

The day, surprisingly, moved way too fast for Sanji's liking. He'd spent it acting like a downright housewife. After cooking brilliant feasts for the injured man, moving the TV into Zeff's room (the geezer didn't like it, but it was better than lying around doing nothing), tidying up the flat, helping Zeff go to the bathroom and bathe (yeah, he didn't like that _at all_), the sun was already setting. They'd kept updated with the outside world via the TV, but the same message of staying inside kept sporting news channels. Every so often, a death and casualties tally would show up, but that would really be the only difference, and it made Sanji feel sick to the stomach. Mainly, they were kept in the dark. Early afternoon he'd called Nami again and checked up on the three boys, threatening them if they endangered Nami in any way, and making them promise to keep her safe. Luffy, of course, replied with a: "we're building a pillow fort, Sanji. Nothing can get us inside the fort, so it's okay."

His beautiful Nami-san was in the hands of three idiots and a fort made of pillows. The thought was enough to make him smoke his entire cigarette packet.

But since the last phone call, he hadn't spoken another word to them. He was sure that she was okay, though, and he knew Shanks, Makino and Ace wouldn't mind the extra company for another night. Everything was fine.

"You know, that thing wasn't human, Sanji." Zeff interrupted his thoughts.

Sanji inclined his head ever so slightly to see the man's expression, but his eyes were fixated directly on the TV, on some crummy repeat.

"Yeah, I get that."

"Then I suppose you've already gotten that these so-called "riots" aren't the work of the Shichibukai, then." Zeff said.

"Yeah." Sanji, sitting on the edge of the bed, popped a cigarette in his mouth and lit it up. He ignored Zeff's immediate, spluttered, angry protests. "I dunno if they're mutants, or zombies, or people that have just gone loco from something – I don't know, maybe the radio lady was right, it might be drugs – but it's obvious that the Government is paying the media to be low-key with the entire thing, trying to manipulate us into believing some complete bullshit. I don't know if the government is in denial, or if they're the ones who've caused this, so they're trying to blame it on something else."

"Could be either of those," Zeff muttered, giving up on Sanji smoking inside. "I'm sure they've got cops out there doing their job though. Somewhere. We've heard a number of sirens go past every now and again."

The young blonde nodded. "Whatever happens, geezer, we'll be fine here. We've got plenty of food, and we've got room for people to stay here if need be. Not to mention, we're stocked to the brim with a number of sharp utensils to attack with, too. If shit gets out of control, I'll board the windows and doors up or something. We just need to wait out the storm."

Zeff was silent for a while after this, then he let out a bellow of a yawn. "Yeah, wait out the storm. I'll do that by hitting the hay." He flicked the television off, and slid down uncomfortably in his bed, his numerous amounts of bandages restricting complete freedom of movement. Sanji watched him, blue eyes settling onto his face.

When Sanji had seen him freshly shaven, with some newly added bandaids practically keeping his mouth together, it had been a strange shock. But he was slowly getting used to Zeff without a moustache. He knew that it would grow back eventually, though the jagged scar on his face would always remain. He wasn't sure how well his shoulder would hold up either, but only time would tell. Zeff would pull through, but it probably wouldn't hurt to find a way to bring Chopper over in the morning to check him over.

"If you don't mind, I'd like to stay here, too." Sanji rose from the bed, putting the cigarette out and chucking it in the bin.

Zeff regarded him with an incredulous, penetrable stare, before shrugging heavily. "Do what you want, boy."

A smile tugged at the corner of Sanji's lips. Even though Zeff was hard to read, Sanji could decipher that he really wanted him to stay.

"Goodnight, you little shit." Zeff rolled over as comfortably as he could, and went silent.

"Yeah, 'night."

It didn't take Sanji long to set up a mattress with a pillow and blanket, but by the time he had finished, a literal storm had begun rolling in, crackling and booming powerfully in the sky. He drew the curtains closed as Zeff snored in chorus with the thunder and lay down feeling agitated.

Zombies weren't real, were they? Sanji knew that there were things in their world that were strange – such as talking, blue-nosed reindeers like Chopper, or that famous Skeleton known as Humming Brook, but Zombies were a completely different thing. Right?

He listened quietly to Zeff's loud, obnoxious, absolutely humane snores, and pulled the blankets over his head as rain began to pour down around the Baratie, sheltering them from all the wrongdoings happening currently in the world.

Zeff was fine, Sanji was fine, his friends were fine, and that was really all that mattered. He didn't know what was going on outside, but it didn't matter. They would just go with the flow, wait out the storm, and drift to the pitter-patter of rain on rooftops in their own ignorant bliss.

Sanji couldn't have known that the rain was manipulating him, enabling him to let down his guard, and lulling him into a false sense of security. But he would know soon enough, when it would already be too late.

Some say ignorance is bliss. Sometimes, ignorance can be fatal.

* * *

Black combat boots crunched and sloshed against gravel and water as the man wandered down the dark, flooding road. His green hair was plastered to his scalp, his white shirt almost rendered see-through with how much rain it was soaking up. The weather was ridiculous, and after wandering for three days straight, he was getting pretty damn tired of being misguided by the winding twists and turns in the road. It's not that he was lost. He was just a little bit confused.

The three sheathed swords at his hip, quietly clacking together at every movement, were his only comfort. Three days of wandering in the middle of nowhere, alone, kind of put you down after a while. But that was the life of a Bounty Hunter, and while Roronoa Zoro wasn't the fondest of people in general, he was becoming quite keen to waltz into a pub, have a couple drinks, and watch the drunken men dance. As someone who had a high tolerance for alcohol, it was always amusing to watch others get plastered. Sometime he wished he could do the same, just forget his life for a couple hours and do some crazy shit that he wouldn't honestly do sober, but it wasn't in his blood and it never would be.

His gaze lifted as he trudged along, and he almost smiled at the dark shapes of buildings in front of him. Almost.

He'd arrived at his next town, finally. He had no idea what town exactly it was, but it was a town, nonetheless, and that was good enough for him. He was ready to sign into the first hotel his eyes landed on, sleep for a couple days, then go drink for another couple days with his most recently earned bounty money. After finding his next target, he'd be off again.

Zoro supposed it was around three in the morning once he stepped into the vicinity of the unknown area, and so it wasn't all that strange for it to be practically a ghost town. He walked under the artificial warmth of flickering streetlights, however, with a hand hovering over Wado Ichimonji tensely. Something felt wrong.

He kept walking, but slower. His eyes darted around as if he were watching a tennis match, back and forth, back and forth. If something was going to jump up on him, he wasn't going to fall victim to it.

He turned around a corner, his callous fingers lightly brushing over Ichimonji's hilt protectively. He stopped suddenly, grabbing onto the hilt, and tugged it free of its constraints immediately at the sight before him.

He assumed it to be a section of the main street, because cars were littered everywhere, doors having been flung and left open in a panic, and a car alarm could just be heard over the loud racket of pouring rain. Glass littered the street, and he could just see tendrils of blood mixed in with rainwater disappearing down into the sewer drains. His eyes followed up the gutter, towards where a man lay facedown; his jacket a torn, shredded, bloody mess.

Zoro crouched, listening intently to try and hear footsteps, voices, or anything – anything other than gushing rain and car alarms. He couldn't, and so he sheathed his sword again, and carefully half-crawled his way over to the man in the gutter.

"Oi. You alive?" He whispered just loud enough to be heard over the rain as he made his way closer, but kept himself at an arms length distance. He wasn't an idiot; he'd seen enough horror movies to know the big "no no's".

The man didn't reply, so Zoro did what any normal human being would do. He grabbed a sheathed sword, and jabbed the man pesteringly until he was forcefully rolled onto his back. His eyes were glazed open, jaw slack, his entire stomach area a carcass, as if he had been eaten alive by large rats. _Very_ large rats. Zoro didn't need to feel a pulse to know the guy was downright dead. Rigor mortis seemed to be settling in of what was left of the guy, so it looked like he'd been there a while.

Zoro considered closing the man's eyes, but thought better of it. There was nothing he could do for someone that was dead. He rose from his crouch, beginning to move on, when something latched itself onto his ankle. But Zoro was already acting – there was a glint of steel, and then a sword sliced into the hand of the "dead" man, who abruptly loosened his vice-like grip.

Zoro turned back towards the man who he had just believed to be anything but alive. He groaned wildly, snapping his jaw forward in an attempt to bite onto the bounty hunters' leg, completely in vain. Zoro yanked the sword back from his hand with a sickening noise, and took a step back, considering the dead man-thing in front of him.

"What the fuck?" He mumbled to himself, not really believing what he was seeing. Now free from the sword, the man began to crawl towards Zoro, jaw opening and closing hungrily. He didn't get much further than that, however. Zoro lowered the sword in one fluid motion, decapitating the man with a frown.

He didn't like to kill the innocent, but what else was he meant to do? He had to put the man out of his own misery. Zoro knew that if he were in the same situation, he'd want the same fate. He could have taken the man to a hospital, but he probably would have died on the way. Zoro still couldn't exactly comprehend how the man had begun to move again.

He wiped the blood from Wado Ichimonji off with the dead man's shirt, but didn't sheathe it again. He could see something moving out of the corner of his eye, and so he turned to meet his next obstacle.

One figure appeared. Another rose from behind a car. Then another stumbled onto the scene. Before Zoro knew it, he was face to face with an army of people. But they weren't really people, he realised. Not really. That much he could tell. It was in their eyes.

They all held the same gaze. A wild, frenzied lust for hunger. It was greedy and it was inhumane. And their replicated gazes were all fixated directly at him.

Zoro realised his mistake – the rain had quietened considerably, and the slice of a man's head was loud enough to reverberate and echo around the hollow street, alerting anything nearby.

With a quick glance behind him, he was quickly noticing with displeasure that he was being surrounded. Crazy assholes in the front, hungry dick-faces in the back, buildings on either side of him. No escape.

Fleetingly, he wished that he was still wandering the barren landscape alone. But it was too late for that now.

A dark bandana was easily tied around his head as he was encircled completely, each rotten face reflecting another.

The only way out was to make an exit. Luckily, Zoro knew the perfect three for the job.

Wado Ichimonji was placed delicately in his mouth; Shusui and Sandai Kitetsu gripped in his two strong hands.

Around the curve of Wado Ichimonji's handle, he grunted, "Directly through the middle, boys. We'll cut them all down."

The blades seemed to glint in agreement at the order, and Zoro grinned determinedly.

_No one stands between me and my bottle of sake._

* * *

**HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA. "His hands were used for cooking and playing with his ding-dong." Fuck, guys, I'm hilarious. No, seriously, when I'm writing, I like to put stupid, stupid lines in my stories, so when I go back to re-read them I'll have a huge giggle fit. I do it a lot. But this time, I was like, "you know what, man? I'm going to keep it in there." Welcome to my humor, world._  
_**

**How about a high-five for my supreme doctoring skills, too, yeah? UP HIGH. I didn't want to elaborate on Sanji tending to Zeff's wounds, cause I don't know how to deal with a wound like that. I have a friend who could probably tell me, so I'll ask next time. PROMISE. 'KAY? YEAH. **

**Guess what? I have exams, like, next week. My final exams. Which I haven't studied for. So this will be the final update for Stagnant AND SFSH for quite a while. But I'll let you guys know when I'm back on my profile SO CHECK. I love this story, it's fun, I'll keep updating when I've finished my most important exams. (aka everything except for Japanese because I hate it and it kills me). G'BYE. REVIEW. FAV. FOLLOW. IT MEANS BABIES TO ME.**


	3. See you, Space Cowboy

**Um, sorry? Late update. I've finished school, hoorah. I had to stay at my Sisters for 10 days cause my Dad and his wife went vacationing like the party-goers they are, and I was too busy watching my sisters horrible horror movies to write a lot (I may have also gotten addicted to Merlin). I also rekindled a friendship with one of my old friends, so that's also been distracting. Mainly I've been lazy - I haven't even updated my other story (which is my main one). I guess I just felt like writing blood and guts more than comedy and romance. Anyway, here you guys go. I feel bad for Sanji in this chapter. He goes through so much shit. My poor baby.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing - I do not own One Piece or its characters. Oda does, though. Good for him. Give him a round of applause.**

* * *

Chapter 3: _It's a long and lonely road when you know you walk alone._

Sanji awoke to a thump.

His eyes snapped open, blinking blearily as they stared into a black expanse of nothingness. His eyes didn't take long to adjust in the darkness, and he could make out vague shapes in his peripheral vision. He set his eyes in the direction of the windows, where the blinds were drawn to block any sunlight, but there was a distinct lack of light peeking in through any gaps.

It was true that it had been early when he and Zeff went to bed, around seven-thirty or so, but he still hadn't expected to be awoken before the sun had risen. Doing a whole lot of nothing surprisingly exhausted Sanji, when an average day was filled busily cooking extravagant meals, impressing important people and charming their beautiful counterparts. That sometimes didn't end well with the important customer, and Sanji had to be on the ball to kick their asses and not break any expensive china at the same time. His days as a Cook at the Baratie were tough, always being pushed to work his very best. But he never felt like he wanted to keel over from exhaustion afterwards; he had never felt so lethargic before.

Now that he was awake, however, and it was a new day (well, early _early_ morning of the new day), he was on the alert, senses heightened as if he were a blind man that needed to rely on pure noise and sound alone. Sanji, overall, was a light sleeper, so he began to assume that Zeff had just knocked his head on the headboard or something and started to relax when he heard the crinkle of sheets being pushed away roughly, and two feet land heavily on the creaky, wooden floorboards.

It was likely that Zeff was just going to pee. The constant rain had probably made him very aware of his bladder. He considered voicing that he was awake and asking if he needed help, but he was sure Zeff wouldn't appreciate it. Instead, he closed his eyes again, nestling further into his sheets comfortably.

He heard the bed shift with a slight groan as Zeff rose – and then there was a small bang followed by a wobbling sound and then an echoed crash. Light filtered underneath Sanji's closed eyes and he opened them once more. Wide shadows were cast across the walls in a haunted mimicry of Zeff's slumped figure, and Sanji sat up, looking over at him, a frown tugging down the corners of his mouth.

It was obvious what had happened: he'd knocked the lamp off the bedside table – and it being one of those fancy schmancy lamps that turned on at a touch – it had turned on to the medium brightness as it fell. Sanji could only make out the artificial halo it beamed from his position in front of the bed, as it had fallen on Zeff's side, the bed completely blocking his view. Zeff stood beside where the light had fallen, head down and arms limply by his sides. He was probably drowsy from all the medication he had taken to numb down the pain.

"You really are getting too old, Zeff. You okay?"

The long, twisting, spindly shadows shifted as Zeff stood straight, still not facing him.

Sanji rose from his makeshift bed uneasily.

"Zeff, hey."

Only a slight inclination of the old Chef's head insinuated that he was actually listening. Sanji couldn't see his face, or his expression; only the strong line of his jaw, and the edges of bandaids were just visible.

"Look," Sanji began impatiently. "I understand it's unmanly to ask for help and all that shit, but if you need me to take you to the bathroom, I'll do it. Though I'm not holding _that _for you."

He waited for Zeff to bark out a, "I'm injured, not fucking retarded, you ungrateful brat." But he remained silent.

It reminded Sanji of the day before – in the alley.

Only this time, he had a hunch that he knew why Zeff was acting the way he was.

It had been eating at him for the entire day while he tried to occupy his mind with simple, mundane tasks. He did anything to try and stop himself from coming to _that_ conclusion.

But there it was again – haunting him like an elephant in the room. It was so obvious.

If that thing they had encountered before was anything like he'd seen in fiction…

… then he knew that the effect of a bite mark…

Zeff finally turned around.

Sanji fought against the urge to puke.

The bandaids were peeling off, revealing the rotten, dead flesh underneath. His shoulder, still being held together by half a roll of bandages, was oozing and pulsing with something that was without a doubt contagious. It was like something alive was trying to writhe and break out of his skin, to dominate the entire man. Zeff was looking directly at him, but at the same time, he wasn't looking at him. His eyes were unfocused and cloudy and bloodshot and dark. He seemed half there but half not.

In Zeff's mind, Sanji was no longer his brat, his little shit head, his eggplant. Sanji was no longer his employee, his prodigy, his son.

Sanji was a walking piece of meat with no lingering attachments. Sanji was food.

"Zeff," Sanji croaked weakly.

Zeff stepped closer and groaned a guttural sound. His face looked so hollow and empty in the dim light.

Sanji reached out with shaky fingers as Zeff stumbled towards him, his injuries slowing his large body down considerably. He wasn't bleeding anymore; every single cut and bruise was laced with a greenish, pale tinge from underneath the bandages. He was a walking, animated corpse.

Despite knowing this, Sanji didn't back away. He let Zeff advance, until they were directly in front of one another. Sanji's fingers closed around Zeff's neck gently, pressing against his pulse. Zeff's arms were on Sanji's biceps, fingers clawing at his shirt with enough force to bruise and break skin, pushing him back to leverage a good way to bite.

Sanji felt nothing against his fingertips. No ba-dump da-dump. No subtle beat against his fingers. Then he was roughly smashed into a shelf. Old, dusty records slid off as the wooden shelf creaked and snapped, and the records all collided together, smashing over Zeff's head and dazing him briefly.

Sanji felt a piece of the shelf cut into him, and that sent a marginal amount of adrenaline to pump through his veins. Zeff's hesitation was all he needed.

He kneed Zeff in the stomach, managing to make the beast of what used to be a man stumble back noisily. Sanji lashed out again, his foot crushing into Zeff's chest with a snap that let Sanji know that he'd broken at least a rib. Zeff yet again reeled back with an inhumane, frightening roar before crashing into his drawers, knocking the old-fashioned radio onto the ground and smashing it to pieces.

Sanji bolted, throwing himself out of the bedroom and launching himself down the steps, bare feet taking them three at a time. He could hear Zeff getting up with a loud racket, growling and spluttering incoherently. Then Zeff, too, was moving. Surprisingly fast.

Sanji could hear his father figure lumbering out of the room heavily and throwing himself down the stairs straight after him. He only just managed to get out of the way as Zeff tumbled down like Jack, likely breaking his crown on the way with a splintery smash. Sanji hadn't quite gotten completely out of the way, however, and Zeff's shoulder hit him square in the back, sending him down into the wooden panelling with a tremendous force. He felt his own shoulder pop out as he landed on it, and he sank his teeth hard into his lower lip to prevent from crying out. Where were his cigarettes when he needed them?

Zeff was getting up already. The way he did it, like he manipulated gravity, like his entire body would jerk up and crack into place, reminded him of the jerky movements of the Grudge. Like his body had no boundaries: he could move it any way he would like, and it would never hurt him again.

Sanji would have felt a wave of sadness if Zeff was not already bounding towards him in giant, clumsy leaps; mouth hanging open like a dog, a slither of drool dangling from his lips. His previous wounds that had originally slowed him down had already been forgotten as the bandages now were tattered and ripped. Sanji scrambled to his feet, ignoring the stinging pain in his shoulder, and with as much force as he could muster, lifted his leg and sent it flying into Zeff's mangled jaw. With the momentum, Zeff flew to the side, landing back on the stairs and shattering any remaining footholds towards the bottom.

This still didn't stop him.

"I'm not killing you." Sanji told him firmly, panting with effort, as if Zeff could actually understand. He didn't.

Sanji looked around as Zeff tried to disentangle himself from the stairs crumbled in mess and decided that he needed to lock him somewhere. But the old man was huge, and could bust down any door if he was really determined – which he most certainly was.

Debris, dust and wood flew up into the air with a sound that resembled booming fireworks against almost silent rain, and Zeff was on two feet again, his face curled up in an angry, distorted snarl. He was all rotting teeth and loose skin, far from smiles and rainbows. Not that he ever really was. He always had an attitude of icy bitterness.

A metaphorical light bulb went off in Sanji's head as he was charged, yet again, and he didn't hesitate in running as fast as he could into the kitchen. He could hear Zeff thundering behind him closely, and he honestly had no idea how he was going to put his theoretical plan into practice.

His hands grasped the edges of the countertop and he lifted himself with almost ease as his shoulder screamed in pain, sliding his silky boxer clad butt over the marble countertops and over to the other side in one fluid motion. Zombie Zeff looked almost dazed at the agility Sanji performed. He landed right in front of the freezer and unlocked it, jerking open the large, white door, which let out a strained groan.

"Come over here, asshole."

Zeff obeyed.

He was the bull and Sanji was the Matador. Though there was no colour red in sight, it wasn't necessary to urge the older Chef on anymore so.

Zeff charged, Sanji sidestepped. His leg jutted out, tripping Zeff over as he clattered into the freezer. Then Sanji pulled the door closed and snapped the lock on before Zeff had even gotten up.

There was a series of moans and groans and thumps and bumps that seemed to last forever before Sanji stepped out of the kitchen, breathing hard and pushing his sweaty clump of hair back from his face.

Then he dropped to his butt, defeated, leaning back against the cold wall. He could still hear sounds coming from the kitchen, but they were low enough to ignore. He pulled his legs up to his chest, dropping his forehead onto his bare knee. His long, shaking fingers bunched into his hair, tugging him back into reality.

"Fuck," he mumbled to himself. He heard his own voice crack again.

The weight of the world seemed to settle on top of his shoulders now that he had stopped moving. His adrenaline had dissipated, and he was left as a panting, huddled mess that was hidden by the barrage of dining tables surrounding him. He was suddenly aware of the searing pain in his shoulder once more, which filtered all the way down to his arm – to his hand.

His hands were his prized possessions. He couldn't let them be injured. But it was too late – he could hardly move his arm. He needed to pop it back in somehow, but he was far too tired.

Instead, he closed his eyes, hoping to soon wake up from his nightmarish reality. Hoping that when he would, Zeff would be alive, insulting him with a fond tone.

* * *

A piercing smash erupted almost as soon as Sanji nodded off, and he immediately thought that it was Zeff, having broken out of the freezer. There was a scuffle from within the Baratie's beaut of a kitchen, then nothing but the sound of roaring wind.

After a moment's hesitation, he decided that Zeff was far too obnoxious and loud to be making such little noise. And freezer doors didn't make a sound such as shattering glass when opened. Sanji was dealing with something else entirely. As if he didn't have enough to deal with already.

Deciding that Zeff still hadn't broken from his solid confinements, he cautiously stepped into the restaurants' kitchen of pearly white, tiled walls, marble counters and well-stocked fridges. The first thing he noticed was how cold it was in the kitchen, and that's when his eyes slid to a broken window, curtains billowing against violent wind and rain water soaking the blue and green fish-patterned fabric. Glass was scattered on the ground in front of it in sharp jagged fragments, and puddles of water lead a trail into the darkness. That certainly explained the high-pitched shattering noise, then. He could hear Zeff groaning and moaning behind the freezer door, but whoever or _whatever_ had broken in wasn't taking the bait in finding out the source.

He followed the water trail with narrowed eyes, creeping forward silently. He considered grabbing a knife, but he didn't want to dirty his collection. Besides, his legs were his most dangerous weapons.

He suddenly stopped moving and breathing when he heard a clinking sound.

His eyes landed on a pair of dark, saturated combat boots. He worked his way up the figure, coming to rest on the – was that green? – head. The man was filing through his booze cabinet. Then he pulled out a bottle of sake and drank.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Sanji blurted. He was meant to be sneaky, but he couldn't help but feel his face grow red and burn in anger.

The man turned to Sanji, staring him down with dull, dark eyes. He was soaking wet, tired-looking and not to mention beaten and bruised everywhere. His clothing was stained with what looked like blood.

Sanji decided not to think too much into it, but the other man's injuries reminded him of his own. His shoulder jerked painfully at the thought.

The two stared at each other in quiet consideration for what felt like an eternity. And then the intruder grinned, dark and lopsided.

"Nice pyjamas." The man commented smoothly.

Sanji gaped, felt his face heat up even more so. Was this stranger insulting him on his fine choice of sleepwear? What the hell was wrong with his silken, love heart boxers? They were romantic.

Sanji glowered murderously. "I don't care who you are, but if you don't vacate this area immediately, I'm going to kick your shitty ass back out that window." He threatened. "I don't have time for petty thieves."

The man looked amused. "How terrifying," He then put his head back and downed some of the sake in a big gulp.

That's when Sanji noticed the three sheaths at his hip, shifting slightly at every single movement the mysterious man made. They looked authentic. Then again, Sanji wasn't the biggest expert on swords and their covers. Knives, on the other hand…

The guy jerked his chin towards the freezer door at another groan from Zeff, which was followed by a thump. "Sounds like you have a problem."

"I have a bigger one, right in front of me." Sanji pointed out.

"I come in peace. Calm your curly little brow."

Sanji grew angrier, moving closer. "What did you say?"

The man grinned again. "I come in peace?"

Sanji lunged.

Bare, prickly leg collided with sheathed sword. Both males were holding back from their true potential, but the intent was clear, and the tension was thick. The swordsman was no longer grinning, and Sanji remained with the same scowl.

Sanji was about to pull apart and aim another kick right to the _marimo's_ chin when he did something strange.

The sword was put back at the haramaki-clad hip, and then rough, callously tanned hands were on his sore shoulder, gripping hard. He was about to retaliate when Sanji heard a pop and pain slammed into him, making him stumble back until he felt the counter dig into his back. He gripped at his shoulder, wheezing and hissing through his teeth, and then glared up at the other man.

"What the hell did you just do?" He breathed. His shoulder felt like it had been ripped off.

The man shrugged. "Popped your shoulder back into place."

Sanji hesitated briefly before asking, "Why?"

"It was dislocated," was his reply.

"No, I meant," Sanji was getting frustrated. "Why would you, a complete stranger, help me?"

"It was annoying."

A somewhat awkward silence fell around them. Sanji was staring at the dubbed "Marimo" like he was from outer space (which was all too possible with his green head), and said Marimo was busy working on another bottle of sake. Sanji found that awkward silences did not bode well with him.

Sanji's foot slammed into the wall beside the mossy head, grabbing a hold of the soaked fabric known as the strangers' shirt. "Stop drinking all _my_ sake. People will buy that."

He was regarded with a scowl. "No one's going to be drinking it except for me, because everyone's dead. Are you dumb, blondie? Take a look outside. Take a look at my damn blood-soaked shirt. Take a look in that freezer. I don't know much, but what I do know for certain that in this street – it's just us. We're the only two breathing."

Sanji went quiet, his eyes glazed wide in horror. The grip on the man's shirt slackened.

"So piss off," Sanji was shoved back, and he crashed into the counter again. "And let me drink the stupid sake."

They both fell into an awkward silence once more. Sanji ached all over, but he ignored it. Instead, he found a packet of cigarettes and a lighter in one of the drawers, and put them both to good use. The swordsman drank, and Sanji smoked. Rain still billowed in from the broken window, but Sanji couldn't find it in himself to care much. His mind was racing with questions for the stranger, about what was happening, about the outside world, about the sickness, about the people… and out of all of the numerous questions he wanted to ask, he chose-

"What's your name?"

The man paused mid sip. "Not telling," he spat.

"What are you, four? I'm Sanji. I work here at the Baratie as a Chef."

"I don't care, you freakin' curlicue, and I aint tellin'."

Sanji snapped. Again.

His bare foot cracked into the cheekbone of the tanned, muscled man before his mouth had even closed, the bottle crashing to the ground and spraying sake everywhere. He stumbled to the side, cupping his cheek with one hand in an attempt to soothe the pain. His dark eyes locked onto Sanji's sinisterly, and a glint of steel bounced off in the slither of moonlight.

Sanji moved, but not quick enough. A sword sliced through his white t-shirt, scraping through the subtle dip at his waist. He hissed, ducked and dived when the sword swung at him again – his cigarette dropped to the ground in his haste. His sore shoulder hit the freezer door as he got back onto the soles of his feet, crouching, and he dug his teeth into his lower lip. He sprung up without a second thought, and the man slammed his elbow into Sanji's windpipe.

His back hit the freezer door, and he coughed and spluttered and spittle escaped his mouth as he fought to breathe past the pain. The last thing he needed was for his windpipe to be crushed. That would really be the cherry on top of the cake.

The swordsman's mouth was a tight, thin line. Determined, motivated and furious. He pulled his sword-arm back, aimed at his target carefully, moving his elbow from Sanji's neck to enable a perfect strike.

Sanji dropped as he swung; slid through his open, battle-stance legs. He heard the sound of harsh metal and he turned back to face the man, who was also turning to face Sanji.

The lock of the freezer lay broken on the ground.

"Shit," Sanji whispered under his breath.

The door burst open and hit the swordsman square in the back, forcing him to topple over, and his sword fell out of his hands, sliding across the floor. Sanji stumbled back as Zeff stumbled out, icicles sprouting from his remaining beard and ice crystals permanently stuck to rotting, already dead skin. One of his eyes had been frozen shut, his lips blue. He looked deader than dead.

Surprisingly, Zeff fell. Sanji thought that the freezer had actually gotten to him, when he realised that Zeff hadn't been going for him.

Fleshy, blue, iced hands grabbed onto the fallen swordsman's leg, who in turn started swearing and trying to kick Zeff in the face while trying to pull out another of his sheathed swords. Zeff was climbing on him, his larger physique pinning the slighter man down. The mysterious man with the swords was big in comparison to Sanji, but small in comparison to Zeff. Zeff was built thick and heavy and he liked its threatening properties. Well, he _had_.

The man grunted with effort, and Sanji remained standing – more frozen than Zeff, who had been locked in the freezer. Zeff's teeth gnashed together, barely missing his victim's throat, who had pulled away in the nick of time. Zeff was spitting on him, salivating everywhere like a rabid dog, munching the air as if it was food in a threatening rhythm. His single open eye was unfocused, rolling around in his head.

Sanji bit his lip, tasted the iron blood that had already gushed out beforehand. He stepped forward slowly, watching the two men on the ground fumble and squirm almost in slow motion. He could feel the sound of his heart beating. Felt the strain on his knees as he lowered himself in a crouch. Felt the hilt of the sword close in his hand. Felt the wet, hot tears budding slowly at the corners of his eyes. Felt himself rise, to stand beside them; they didn't notice.

Zeff pushed his palm onto the Marimo's forehead slowly, forcing his head down. His meaty, leathery face dipped; his mouth opened wide. His teeth were rotting and yellow already. His tongue moving awkwardly in his mouth, as if it were a foreign, alien identity that did not belong. A zombie did not need a tongue; a zombie did not taste. Zombies swallowed whole.

Sanji gulped in fresh air.

Then he drove the sword through Zeff's thick neck like it was melted butter, and his head toppled to the ground with a squishy thud, an arch of blood accompanying the fall. His body slumped, and the green-haired man gasped for breath, colourful language spouting from his lips against the dark and dreary atmosphere. With a grunt, he shoved Zeff's decapitated body off and got to his feet, yanked the sword from Sanji's grip and raised it swiftly – the sharp point directed at Zeff's already very dead head.

"_You_ _piece of_-"

Sanji turned to the sink and retched, and the man stopped. He paused, breathed silently, through his nose. He sheathed his sword and rubbed the back of his neck, refraining from yanking Wado Ichimonji out once more and stabbing the separated head into a lumpy, red liquid of sorts.

Sanji emptied the contents of his stomach and slumped over the counter, heaving and trying not to sob, mumbling inaudible incoherencies to the inanimate marble top as if it could answer his prayers and grant his wishes.

The Marimo shuffled on his feet restlessly as he watched, mumbling something under his breath. When Sanji didn't show any signs of hearing, he let out a sigh and repeated begrudgingly, "Thanks, you know. Yeah."

Sanji laughed hollowly, shaking his head and pushing himself away from the counter. He cocked his head towards the unnamed man, and gave him a long, sad stare. "Just _leave_."

He didn't – he just watched Sanji with an almost pitiful look. Then he was grabbing his third bottle of hard liqueur, and shoving it into Sanji's sweaty, shaky hands, with a forcefulness that was saying _you need this more than I do. _

Sanji complied with the unspoken demand, bringing the sake to his lips as he slid to the floor, a cupboard that he knew held pots and pans and other kitchenware against his back. His shoulder still throbbed dully, but then again, so did everything else. To his surprise, the man with the green hair joined him on the ground. They sat, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the rain die down outside.

"It's Zoro," the stranger spoke up.

"What?" Sanji spluttered through another mouthful. He wiped his chin with his shirt, looking at the man through his peripheral.

"My name. Roronoa Zoro."

"Is that meant to make it up to me? I saved a stranger over my own father," he hissed as if the words had burned him, and he rested his palm to his slick, hot forehead.

"He was dead anyway," Zoro unhelpfully added.

Sanji seemed to flare and sit up a bit straighter, but quickly faltered. He nudged the bottle back towards Zoro and shook his head.

"I don't even have the energy to kick your ass. I don't even think I want to fight again. I used my hands as weapons – I wielded a sword. I promised myself I'd never do that."

Zoro tapped the rim of the bottle to his lips, considering rather than drinking. "Times are changing."

Sanji slid further down the cupboard, feeling the back of his shirt lift up the lower he got. He didn't care. He wanted to melt in with the floor and just be. "Are there really _things_ out there – like Zeff?" He gestured to the dead man a couple feet away, then felt sick again and turned away.

Zoro gave a curt nod.

"Did you kill them?" Sanji felt like he already knew the answer.

"Yes."

The blonde cook nodded. "Thought so. I didn't think blood was a fashion statement nowadays."

Zoro didn't laugh at the joke, nor did he even crack a smile. Instead, he carried on with a finger picking the wax from his ear, "Here's the deal. Everyone else in the vicinity are, well, Zombies. For some reason, you're alive. I'm alive because I know how to stay alive; it's my job. But you? It's a mystery. You wouldn't survive without me."

"What are you saying? That you want to team up?" Sanji lifted a curly brow inquisitively.

Zoro paused, and looked at him like he was drowning a fish. "Are you insane? Team up with some dumb ass cook? No. I'm telling you that you have no chance of survival so I'm taking all your shit. And I'm not letting you stop me."

Sanji slid his eyes to the man, the underlying threat of Zoro's words not fully connecting before the hilt of a sword came crashing into his temple. Sharp, hot white needles sprung like wildfire through his head. His vision went in and out, and the world spun. He felt like he was flying for a scary moment, and then he was sprawled on the cold, tiled ground, blinking blearily.

Zoro's footsteps sounded like gunshots to his ringing ears, and he could just make out his figure each time he went past. He was zoning in and out as he heard cupboards open and close with hurried slams, and he didn't know how long he'd been lying there, slowly losing consciousness, until Zoro's boots were in front of him once more.

"Well, I won't be seeing you, curly brow." There were a few more resounding footsteps, then a sharp intake of breath. "Sorry."

Sanji choked on his own saliva, trying to formulate words with his slack mouth, to swear at him and to scream at him to stop. And then he was watching Zoro walk away with his pack of goodies, sliding out the window from whence he came, and fleeing into the dead of the night like he had never existed in the first place.

Then Sanji was spiralling into darkness as his heavy lids closed, the iron taste in his mouth haunting his every waking thought.

There was nothing he could do but let go, to fade.

Fade as the rain dwindled to the slightest of pitter patters.

Fade as the wet twigs crunched and snapped outside.

Fade as the groans became louder, closer, all around him, and around his broken home.


End file.
